Dance of Desire (10 page)

Triumph coiled through Fane. At last, he had found leverage with the boy. Though, he noted with dismay, Villeaux seemed to care more for the dancer than his own sister. "She awaits me in my private solar," Fane said, holding the lad's shocked gaze. "I look forward to seducing her."

Villeaux lunged to the end of his chains. His breathing turned ragged. Furious. Desperate. "Do not touch her, Linford, or I swear to God, I will kill you."

Fane laughed. Leaning one shoulder against the cell's bars, he dismissed the threat with a flick of his wrist. "The dancer told me you gave her this bauble. What, exactly, was she to you? You see, I have claimed her for my own."

The lad's eyes narrowed to angry slits. "
Dancer?
Your mind is addled. That brooch belongs to my sister. I paid a goldsmith to design it, and gave it to her myself."

Warning buzzed at the back of Fane's mind like a noisy, blood-sucking horsefly. Stunned fury crashed through him, even as he bit out the word: "Sister."

The lad nodded. "Rexana."

Anger roared through Fane, hotter and fiercer than the lust in his veins. His fingers tightened around the brooch. The dancer's exotic mysteries vanished. Evaporated, like the thin smoke from a stick of burning incense.

Cursed fool!
He had sensed many contradictions in her, yet he had ignored them. He had allowed lust to rule his head — a mistake that, months ago, would have cost him his life.

Villeaux's
voice slashed into Fane's thoughts. "How did you get her brooch? What have you done with Rexana?"

A harsh laugh exploded from Fane. "Naught yet." He turned and stalked across the dungeon. The darkened chamber blurred in a haze of angry red.

"Linford!"

Fane ignored the lad's urgent cry, the guards' startled mutters, and the frigid draft that swept over him as he lunged up the stairwell. He thundered toward the solar.

Lady Rexana owed him an explanation.

She owed him far more than that.

"See, milady? I told you we would safely leave Tangston."

Huddled in a corner of the moving wagon, jostled from side to side, Rexana glanced at Henry through the foggy night air. She ignored a prick of disquiet. How foolish to doubt their success. Each grinding turn of the wagon's wheels took them further from Linford's keep. She smiled. "You did. Thank you, kind sir, for your escort as well as your gallantry."

Seated at the front of the wagon, beside the drummer who guided the horse, Henry grinned. "My pleasure, milady." His chest puffed out like a proud cockerel's. "I do not regret asking the kitchen maid the way to the bailey. She was besotted, therefore unlikely to remember a word of our chatter." He wagged his eyebrows. "She kissed most sweetly, as well."

The musicians laughed.

The drummer snorted. "I am glad ye were not tempted
ta
press
yer
sloppy charms on the guards at
the gatehouse. They would not have let us pass so readily."

More laughter. Henry scowled. Rexana smothered a giggle behind her hand. She could hardly imagine a woman, let alone a grizzled warrior, puckering up to kiss either of the grim sentries who watched all who rode through Tangston's gates.

The breeze blew through trees along the roadside, a sound unlike the wind howling past Tangston's walls. With a shiver, she recalled the agonizing moments when the guards had ordered them to stop. As the wagon had creaked to a halt, her anxious mind whirled. Had Linford discovered her missing? Had he learned that she was Rudd's sister? Had he ordered her detained? She had drawn deeper into the folds of the scratchy cloak Henry had loaned her, tugging the hood over her face. After a few words from Henry, and a bawdy jest from the drummer, the guards had waved them over the drawbridge and onto the pitted road which wound its way toward Ickleton.

The horse settled into a steady
clop, clop,
while the men continued their banter about kissing. Rexana snuggled into the cushions and blankets provided for her comfort. The breeze, heavy with the scent of damp loam, fingered its way under the hood to brush her cheeks. A touch as light as Linford's.

Uncertainty clenched her belly like a fist.

Had they escaped the sheriff? He and his men might be in pursuit. He might emerge from the night's inky shadows, quirk an eyebrow, and demand to know what made her believe she could ever deceive him.

She buried deeper into the blankets. If Linford questioned Rudd about the brooch, would he answer, or would he realize he must protect her identity? A tiny thread of hope wound its way through her. If he did not divulge her, and she found a way to free him within the next day or two, Linford might never know that his veiled dancer was, in truth, a wealthy, titled lady. A virgin who had never experienced a lover's kiss.

The memory of Linford's hungry stare flickered through her mind. The skin across her breasts tightened. Heated. Her lips tingled, as though the cool night conspired against her and mimicked his kiss. What would it have been like to kiss him? Would he have tasted deliciously exotic?

A night bird flapped overhead with an eerie shriek, startling her from her thoughts. She blushed. How shameful to ponder her desires, when Rudd was Linford's prisoner. She rubbed her lips together to squash the queer sensation. Despite her efforts to swallow it, a moan bubbled in her throat.

One of the musicians touched her arm. "Are ye warm enough, milady? Are ye comfortable? 'Twill be a long journey."

She forced a smile. "I am fine, thank you."

Struggling to ignore her unease, she stared into the night. Fog wreathed the shadowed bushes and trees, and swirled around the wagon. By the dawn's light, the mist would disappear. As, too, must all evidence of her night as an exotic eastern dancer.

As soon as she reached Ickleton, she would give the mummer a bag of coins in thanks for the loan of the costume. She would also arrange for the woman to be far from Ickleton by daybreak.

Determination quickened Rexana's pulse. First thing on the morrow, she and Henry would begin a plan. She would see Rudd exonerated. And freed.

Hands on his hips, Fane looked around the empty solar. Emotion seethed within him — anger, frustration, cursed desire — but he leashed the urge to throw back his head and roar like a furious beast.

Nervous shuffles echoed in the open doorway behind him. Idiot guards. He had found one half way down the passage, staggering to his knees while rubbing a bump on his head. When sharply questioned, the guard babbled a tale about escorting the dancer to fetch wine, a man leaping out from behind a tapestry, and a blow to the head. When the guard roused, he found himself lying on the floor. The assailant and the dancer were gone.

Fane muttered a foul Arabic curse, a memento from his Saracen captors. With the help of an accomplice — a trusted servant, no doubt — Lady Rexana had escaped. For now.

He swung around to address the guards. "You." He pointed to the taller man, whose face drained of color. "Go straight to the bailey. Tell the guards at the gatehouse what has occurred. The dancer and her companion are not to leave the keep."

The guard's head bobbed. "Aye, milord."

A menacing growl burned Fane's throat. He glared at the wounded guard, who swayed on his feet as though a strong draft would send him toppling to the floor. "You will inform Kester. I want this keep searched, chamber by chamber. If she is within these walls, I want her found. Bring her to me."

The guards bowed and turned away.

"Later, we will discuss your punishment for disobeying my orders."

Fane slammed the solar door. He sucked air into his lungs. Anger pulsed at his temple, stiffened his fingers until it seemed his bones would snap. When he found her . . .

As he strode toward the hearth, where he had last seen her, his gaze fell to the lion skin stretched over the bed. A blue object glinted on the tawny fur. Ignoring the bitterness burning in his belly, the repressed lust still heating his blood, Fane strode toward the pelt.

The sapphire ring. She had not kept it.

His hand shaking, he slid the heavy ring onto his finger. The sapphire glowed as though lit by a vibrant inner spirit. Lady Rexana's kohl-rimmed eyes had gleamed as brightly.

His jaw hardened. Why had she not robbed him of the jewel, as she had stolen his dreams of a night of sensual pleasure? Did she believe that by leaving the ring, one honorable decision in her ploy of deception, she might save herself from his wrath, or his right to demand an explanation from her own lips?